It's Okay?
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: “I didn't think you’d change your mind,” he says after a moment. “I thought you’d do it ... Almost wanted you to.” “Don’t tell me that.” “Sorry.” “It’s okay.” CB


**It's Okay?**

...

There's a solider boy lounging in the lounge when she gets in. What's a soldier boy doing in the VIP lounge, she doesn't know, but it's not the novelty that demands attention, the shiny shiny boots and buff t-shirt. It's him. He's a presence, a magnet, a flytrap, standing there in his shiny shiny boots, cap pulled down and Aviators on against the wicked winter sun. And those shoulder blades. Staring is improper for a lady, but she can't look away. She is only a woman, after all. She orders a vodka martini, pulls her ermine closer against the Christmas bite (Paris wasn't this cold) and observes. Watching him, watching her, watching – pretending to be plane-spotting. She knows this soldier boy, she's seen him before, if only she could see his face. He's leaning against the window, turned, legs crossed, at ease. Spotted: cocky in khaki at JFK. One arm's in a sling, but that doesn't stop the redhead tackling him.

There's PDA and then there's PDA. So tacky. She turns away – maybe she doesn't know soldier boy, after all.

Her ride arrives and she doesn't see him laugh with Ms. Scarlet, pose for the iPhone – _we got grounded and kiss a soldier is number 27 on the JFK scavenger hunt_. She doesn't see him start after her, Aviator eyes on her necklace. It's her closet favourite. The Erickson Beamon.

* * *

Serena asks her how the journey went over green tea and Thai massages. "You should have told me you got in so early, Bart could have picked you up. You know," she does that Serena hair toss, all sunny and gold. "Save the planet."

"Bart?" she repeats. "What was he doing in JFK?"

Blank look.

"Picking up Chuck, of course. The Best Man." Serena is too perceptive for her own good. "What planet do you live on B?"

She rolls on to her back, covering her eyes. She can feel soldier boy grinning at her across the VIP lounge. Secret: _Roman Holiday _isn't her favourite movie–

"One without Chuck Bass."

"That's Second Lieutenant, to you."

–_Top Gun_ is.

* * *

She sends Felipe for more champagne, calls after him, "Make sure it's Moet. Darling." Darling – an afterthought, because he's staring at her. They're all crowding around him, him with his gold medals and war wounds. There's an odd look in Bart's eyes; it clashes, it's like too-small shoes, but he suffers through it: pride.

So this is what he's been doing all this time. Playing toy soldiers. Such a _boy_.

"Where's the redhead?" she sneers (force of habit) when a reunion is no longer unavoidable, Serena at her side, Nate at his. Seconds, maybe? Only it seems like both the blondes are in his corner.

He has the audacity to raise an eyebrow.

She taps her foot. "Drop the act, Maverick. I saw you at the airport."

"Hello to you too, Blair. Long time no see."

"And whose fault is that?" she snaps. Why is she getting angry? And where is Felipe with her Moet? "I didn't unleash my inner Houdini an– "

They're saved by Carter Baizen, because life is like that. "Welcome home, my man." Since when are Carter Baizen and Chuck Bass all chummy-chummy? "How goes it in Iran? Last time I was there ... Well. There's a time and place right?" He pulls a face, offers around the bottle, punches Chuck in the shoulder. The wrong shoulder. "Sorry. My bad."

Waltzes off. Nate glares. Serena says she'll find an icepack, slips away through the crowds. Blair pulls her back, lingering. "Ice bucket's that way," Serena says. "I'll tell Felipe you're– "

"An old friend," Blair finishing, nodding. She doesn't put in a verb.

* * *

The scars are still fresh, and that's before he's even taken his shirt off. The silence billows, slapping in the still wind like wet sheets. Dirty, old sheets. Blair undoes his tie, collar, top buttons and slaps the icepack (frozen peas) into his hand. "I need alcohol."

She turns to the bar. She had a vodka martini in mind, but somehow returns with tequila and no glasses. His head's tipped back against the wall. She holds the bottle to his forehead. What? It's cold. His hair cropped at the sides, but it's soft through her fingers. He's looking at her, but he's not complaining.

He pours her a shot in the bottle cap. "To Nate and Serena?"

"The happy couple."

"Don't sound so bitter, Blair." He traces her face with a strong finger.

* * *

Is it right, for the Best Man and Maid of Honour to fuck against the empty bar when the rehearsal dinner rumbles on across the hall? Is it so wrong, if they're old friends?

She peels the bandages from sweat-slicked limbs with trembling fingers. Sitting up on the bar, legs gripping his waist, though more relaxed now. Clothing, optional.

"Someone shoot you Bass?" she cooes. "Tell me. I want to send them flowers."

In the right light, the puckered hole could be a kiss, a bright red one. She dusts it with her fingertips, feeling him shiver. It's very hot. Goes all the way through. She maps the distance to his heart, her black nails standing out against the golden skin.

"So close," she breathes. And her throat is _not_ tight.

He smirks. "Disappointed?"

"Go to Hell."

"Only if you come with me."

She rests her head against his shoulder and doesn't think about Felipe. She can see him, holding her champagne. It must have gone flat by now. She knots her finger in his short hair and he breathes against her, breathes her in. It's probably a stupid question, but she has to know: "Did it hurt?"

"I've had worse."

She straightens up, x-raying him with her eyes. Other than the shoulder, his torso is unblemished. His neck – well, that scarring is recent. She's frowning, her eyes asking, _where? _

He catches her hand, holds it over his heart. "Here."

He knows her too well. She fixes her hair and leaves, her heels going click-clack click-clack against the polished oak. It's her turn to leave.

* * *

Serena looks beautiful, but that's no surprise. Nate, too, is nauseatingly handsome in the dying light. A New Year's wedding, all specially arranged; whoever you kiss at midnight is the person you'll spend the rest of the year with. Felipe blows her a kiss from the second row, but she doesn't see him. How can she, when soldier boy's here?

He doesn't blow her a kiss. He looks at her like she's naked and she's scared her dress might melt off. It's custom-made Vera Wang.

There are circles etched under his eyes, though. Serena said he didn't sleep.

* * *

Dinner takes four hours and she counts the number of times he vanishes. Since when did Chuck Bass smoke? Alone?

She wishes she'd changed too because she can't compete with this. She wishes he hadn't.

"Smokers are jokers," she scolds, sneaking out. It's almost raining, the night is very close. She can feel it pushing against her skin.

"I'm laughing." His mouth twitches but his eyes are gone.

"You won't be when you've got lung cancer. They'll kill you, you know."

When he smiles, it scares her, just a little. "You think I'll last that long?"

"Don't talk like that."

"Like what?"

She plucks the cigarette from his fingers and stamps it out, one-two-three turns with her dainty Blahniks. "Like you're already dead, Chuck."

He lights up another. Smoke hangs tight like mist and she can't really see him anymore, only a blurry outline. This seems more appropriate. The writing on the pack is in Arabic. Nate says he's fluent.

"What's it to you?" he asks, exhaling in her face. Sometimes he's just too cruel.

She doesn't cough, because that would be weak. "Nothing."

* * *

The speeches drag. Even Felipe stands up. She wants him to sit down, shut up, so she can have cake and dance and get drunk. He's looking at her and it makes her uncomfortable. Sticky.

"This is a New Year," he is saying, but she's not really listening. Chuck washes down pills from a plastic tube with cheap whiskey. Chuck Bass doesn't drink cheap whiskey.

" ... my New Year's resolution – and, this year, my resolution is Blair Waldorf."

The sound of her name stirs something, and she stares up at Felipe. And then down, at Felipe, because he's suddenly below her, on his knees, hands out, box in hand, diamond in box. She's sure what he says is very romantic, but all she can hear is WIFE and it makes her ears bleed.

When Felipe goes to bed before her, he puts the toothpaste on her toothbrush. He brings her breakfast in bed every Sunday, fresh croissants and coffee from her favourite café near the Louvre. He buys her pearl chokers and little black dresses. He doesn't forget things. He doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, doesn't swear, doesn't cheat, doesn't run away in the middle of the night, leaving just a note.

(a note she has locked up in her jewellery box)

So why doesn't she love him?

"Blair?"

She gives him the opportunity to fight for her, win another shiny medal.

He goes for a smoke.

So she says, "Yes."

* * *

They look at each other, and it's a long one.

He stomps out the butt. "What are you doing here?"

She's standing at his front door, drenched. Her shoes are gone – kicked them off, couldn't run in them. Her white dress will never be white again.

Doesn't matter. She won't be needing it.

He leans against the doorframe, arms folded. She stands, panting, dripping on the doormat. Her tiara is loose. He reaches, as though through water, and straightens it. Tucks a stray curl away, back into place. His hand lingers by her cheek.

She sees past him. The room's an explosion, and there's one bag, by the door, zipped up. Ready. She nudges it. "Going somewhere?"

"Come away with me."

She laughs, because it's not funny. "Don't be stupid. We can't."

"We can. I'm Chuck Bass."

"But I'm not," she says softly.

He looks at her like she's so little. For some reason this doesn't make her angry, it isn't patronising or infuriating or embarrassing. It's just how it is. He's seen things, done things. And she's still here–

"People change, Blair."

–almost like she's been waiting.

"Teach me."

When he smiles, a real one, with that little gap in his teeth, she knows. "Come away with me. We'll go somewhere they'll never find us, just the two of us, forever."

"Chuck ..."

He kisses her hand, slips off her ring. "Come away with me," he says, again, and he's grinning at her like he already knows the answer. "Right now."

"But I don't have anything – any clothes, any money. I don't even have shoes. Chuck, I can't go anywhere without _shoes_."

He presses a finger to her lips. And he says something that Chuck Bass would never, not ever, say. Because he's not really Chuck Bass anymore, he's just Chuck. _Captain_ _Bass_. He's not the little boy who ran off all those years ago.

He whispers, "Please."

Then she grabs him, tugging his head to hers, and his hands go from the wall to her waist, pulling her closer, closer, has to be closer. He lets her spin them, stumbling a little over the threshold as she manoeuvres him into the wall, then whirling them around again and bracing his legs as she wraps her own around his waist.

"Oh, God," Blair breathes as the kiss broke off. "Not here!" She lets go of him, dropping to the ground, and kisses him again before forcing herself to pull away. "We– we have to– "

"Come on," Chuck says raggedly, snaking an arm around her waist and tugging her up against him, walking her backwards, mouth going to hers, to her face, to her neck, legs guiding hers as he pushes her around the corner. They make it to the car, somehow, Blair nearly blind with it, his warm quick hands undoing the zipper on her wedding dress, her own fingers tripping and fumbling in his pockets for the keys. The driver's seat is empty. She finds them, drops them, and he picks them up, stroking a hand up her thighs as he stands.

They manage to get inside, to avoid the seatbelts on the backseat and get the door slammed awkwardly shut, breathing hard into the thick grinning darkness, Blair and Chuck, Chuck and Blair, panting into the night as she scrapes her nails across his back trying to get his shirt off and he nearly breaks the elastic on her panties before yanking them down around her ankles with his teeth. She kicks them off, not caring where they landed, and pulls him down on top of her on the backseat of the limousine. This is no random bartop, no bathroom stall at Daniels', no suite in the Palace, no distant, dark corner where things that shouldn't happen do. Sweet-smelling spice of salt and passion, and he tastes like everything she wants more of.

He gets her dress off somehow, and her elbow nearly takes his eye out when he pulls it off, but that's hardly important because her arms are above her head and her chest is bare and open and inviting and he bends his head to her breast, one hand parting her legs, the other working his own pants down his legs. She flings her head back, eyes clenching shut, mouth open, trying to find the way to keep herself together, to keep herself from losing, and then his fingers are inside her and she finds his hair and yanks it up and kisses him hard enough to hurt.

After, lying together on the back seat, legs bent and wrapped around each other, arms twisted, her pressed against him on her side against the seat, she feels herself shaking. He finds her mouth and presses his lips to hers and doesn't quite kiss her, just exists there with their breath mingling and their skin as close as was possible, and she knows he felt her shaking, too.

"Why?" she asks then, because it seems the thing to ask.

"Because we're fucked," he answers, because it seems the thing to say, and she knows that he isn't being sarcastic and literal.

"Yeah."

And there's quiet, the soft kind, like a blanket. Then Blair moves her head forward and presses her lips to his, to his mouth, to his cheek, to his eyelids, his shoulder. She sighs, tucks her head down beneath his chin, and closes her eyes.

"I didn't think you'd change your mind," he says after a moment. "I thought you'd do it ... Almost wanted you to."

"Don't tell me that."

"Sorry."

"It's okay?"


End file.
